Jurassic Park by Michael Crichton.

I had never read a Michael Crichton’s book before. My familiarity with him was through films directed by him and adaptations of his novels. All of that didn’t disappoint me. However, I looked upon many of Crichton’s books with unsure because he loved to imagine with science, and that couldn’t be tantalizing for me. I could reveal this for myself by taking one of them, which was Jurassic Park, and it looked less oriented in that.

He was high-class in writing, giving saturated sentences and not bothering with metaphors. However, Crichton sees as a necessity to share his knowledge in sciences with everybody. I already thought that I read non-fiction because several pages told about the history of genetics. Even though he wasn’t such intrusive and was masterful in writing if you put Jules Verne against him, but, nevertheless, you notice that through his personages Michael Crichton wants to inform his have learnt about specific science and any other surrounding aspect. It was readable.

Michael Crichton has skillfulness with words, but he isn’t a fine teller in Jurassic Park in his seemingly cinematic manner, which includes much hollow dramatizing, and for its sake he forgets about authenticity. A boy in a heavy stance after being bitten by a raptor can hardly only call a name of his attacker, but soon he has the strength to take a sitting position to demonstrate vomiting; after that, he falls on the ground and does the same act again. Why not describe if powers returned? Another disbelief was in the disappearance of one doctor’s photo camera–on which shots of the boy were made–because it was impossible in her situation. In the next episode, a little girl was attacked by a predatory animal, which was supposed to kill her, but the author doesn’t describe why that procompsognathus didn’t finish her if had all control of a situation. No explanation of how her bites, from which blood was flowing, has gone soon. Behind scientific knowledge, Crichton wasn’t aware about basic things. He wants to intrigue as it does with a doctor, who arrives at the place where the girl was attacked and aspires to find that creature, but he doesn’t succeed after a long time and exactly in the moment of his leaving, a howler monkey with that dinosaur appears. “How that primate got it?” was an unknown for science.

A novel’s lead hero, Alan Grant, has an impossible fame in that he wrote a few articles about discovered skeletons of child dinosaurs, and it gave him that astronomical renown. He has an accurate chain of phone calls from people in that one day where many coincidences weave a common: he meets an inspector who investigates Hammond’s dubious activities, has a phone conversation with the latter, whom he hadn’t even heard from for long, after the leaving of the first and his colleague in science sends a roentgen photo of procompsognathus. Hammond, a man who recreated dinosaurs, wants to see Grant on his island of Costa Rica. Maybe he is an extremely rich man, but a parcel from him couldn’t arrive on the very next day.

But it wasn’t Michael Crichton’s care. His characters have unnatural behavior because they like to intrigue (which is intended for readers). The arrived inspector shows that later when discloses to Grant that he is making an investigation of Hammond. A member of a board of directors of a rival corporation describes Hammond activities, saying cloning animals, and somebody makes a respective ask in that moment, and a performer utters for impression, “dinosaurs”.

The author didn’t avoid repeating facts, which as a mantra you read again about when dinosaurs disappeared and that the detected procompsognathus was alike to chicken when another character makes that depiction.

There was nonsense and only that. Sometimes I believed that I was reading a B-class science fiction. The rival corporation created a transparent trout because fishermen caught all the rest of the original kind of fish. What about a government nature department that controls here? Or if that island is a hundred miles offshore, how procompsognathuses reached a coast of Costa Rica?

That same feeling of low level was with the plot. If that dinosaur couldn’t kill an eight year old girl, but Hammond had a comedian death from falling of the hill and being attacked by a bunch of these procompsognathuses. It was found out in having a short version to that period. I couldn’t take more and ended after the heroes have a first time seeing the dinos (it was 121 pages). It was unbearable to keep with reading because in a storyline of that novel considers that only the auxiliary power generator can reboot a computer system, and it is situated in the deep jungles. A man who was responded for security had a finest sense of humor.

Jurassic Park on the surface isn’t strong in the narration. The novel has a personage, a mathematician Ian Malcolm, to whose presence I haven’t a critique, but using him would be useless in actuality. His mathematical conclusion about a project was a lucky guess. I accept that as Hammond’s whimsical act, which was a usual from him. Crichton slays Malcolm in his composition, but resurrects in the sequel The Lost World–a title is an homage to Arthur Conan Doyle–and gives to that character a girl. It feels without learning–which I made–that the continuation more keeps to a predictable pattern structure, as it occurs with following books and films sometimes.